


Starry Skies and Rhubarb Pies

by Rowantreeisme



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, It's a good decision, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Pepper Potts, Then more angst, Tony Angst, Tony fakes his death, Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10979403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowantreeisme/pseuds/Rowantreeisme
Summary: Or, In which Tony Stark is dead, and he’s happy that way.





	Starry Skies and Rhubarb Pies

After Ultron, after the accords and Siberia and the whole mess with getting the “rouge avengers” pardoned, because the world needs them, for whichever new threat comes next, the world needs the Avengers.   
  
What they don’t need is him. Sure, they might need his money and his inventions and his suits, but not him.   
  
Tony’s done the math. He’s fixed as much of his messes as he could, but it’s only a matter of time before he fucks up again. It’s inevitable.    
He’s tired, tired of waking up screaming for JARVIS, tired of looking up along the tower and seeing the wormhole, tired of feeling trapped when he has to meet with the team. The solution is simple. The world’s better off with him dead. He’s better off dead.   
  
It’s easier than he thought it would be, with FRIDAY helping him. Heart attack will be the final verdict. It’s certainly believable enough, considering that if he’d continued in this lifestyle, the stress most likely would’ve given him one.   
  
Pepper’s in on it, of course. He’d never do that to her. Rhodey too, and Harley and Peter, who have both been awarded internships at SI, and Happy, no matter that he no longer works for him.   
  
There’s not a funeral, and his “ashes” are put in a dark wooden urn, a fine plating of gold-titanium lining the insides, showing through the cracks in the wood.   
  
He doesn’t know why he’s disappointed that the team’s speeches at the press conference to reveal it sound so empty, so hollow. He’s not stupid enough to think they’d care. Rhodey’s speech sounds hollow too, fake, but for a different reason. Because he’s _lying_.    
And, that’s it. Tony Stark is dead, and it takes less than a month for the world to get over him.   
  
  
“Iron man” still fights with the rest, though now it’s supposedly piloted by AAROS, or Artificial Armor Remote Operating System, supposedly modelled after Tony’s own brainwaves. Of course, it’s still _him_ in the suit, but no one knows that. After all, he’s dead.   
  
The company bounces back from the stock crash soon enough, and no one save for his closest friends ever knew that the R&D department was almost entirely him, so the steady stream of new tech doesn’t make anyone bat an eye.   
  
Tony lays low for a month, stops dying his hair, lets it and his beard grow out. After a month, when he looks different enough with more hair, green contacts and the glasses he’s refused to wear for years, he leaves New York.   
  
He takes the newest armour, the secret one, which can nearly hit Mach 10, and is stuffed with stealth tech so advanced that it could stand in front of you and you’d never know.   
  
There’s already a place set up for him, a little garage in rural Italy where FRIDAY and the other bots have already been set up.   
  
The attached house is less of a house, and more of a workshop with a bed, kitchenette, and bathroom, and it’s perfect.   
  
It’s amazing how normal his life is now, how much spare time he has. He still designs tech, for getting water and clean energy, prosthetics and medical tech, and sends them back to Pepper, but SHIELD doesn’t hound him endlessly for tech like they used to.   
  
The first day of his new life, he’d walked down to the little town close to him, to buy groceries. He’d chatted to the older woman behind the counter, and for the first time since his mother had died, he’d let his forced American accent slip into the softer rolling Italian.   
  
He became famous in the little village in no time at all, The mechanic up the hill who’d fix any car at half the cost of anyone else. His days were spent with engines and oil and the hands-on things he’s always loved, with Dummy and FRIDAY and his bots, with village kids building soapbox cars from scraps.   
  
On one of his weekly grocery runs, Isabella, the owner of the little store, who chatted at him over the till like they were old friends, and slipped chocolate bars into his bags with a wink, asked if would check out her plumbing, because it was family supper night and it was rattling something frightful.   
  
It was a simple fix, and somehow, after refusing to take the money she tried to give him, he found himself sitting at her old wooden table, squished in between laughing members of her family with a massive plate of food.    
It was well into the night by the time he was allowed to leave, and he walked back home with a smile on his face, a lighter heart, and a homemade rhubarb pie.   
  
The night sky was clear above him, and for the first time, he wasn’t afraid when he dreamed of flying through a starry void.

  
  


Ask Me Why and Let Me Lie (Part 2)

  
  


It crumbled, as all good things seemed to do. His right arm was hit, a shard of metal hitting the elbow joint so perfectly that it slipped in with no resistance at all. He yanked it out, forcing himself silent. 

He turned back to the enemy, locking onto it, and that was when everything went  _ wrong _ .

It hit him with something, a paralytic, that managed to freeze both him, and the suit, and he fell to the ground, locked in the armour and his own body and he wasn't sure if his breaths weren't coming because of panic, or because his diaphragm was frozen. 

There were more blasts, he could  _ hear _ them, but he couldn't do anything except lay on the ground, he couldn't even blink and his eyes were watering and  _ oh god no his  _ heart-

And then the sounds of explosions ceased, and whatever had done this to him was fading, not  _ gone _ , because he still couldn't move, but he could at least breathe, and blink. The HUD was still frozen, displaying readings from minutes ago, and he was fine. He’d wait until it wore off enough for FRIDAY to come back online, and then he’d go home. Home was the only thing that was keeping him from full-on panic.

He froze, again, for a completely different reason this time, because he could hear voices above him and they sounded concerned, and something nudged his arm, his  _ right _ arm, the one that was still bleeding, and drew in a breath to order the flickering HUD to get him the hell out of there when the faceplate was ripped off.

Running on pure instinct, he tried to raise his hands to protect his face for the blow that was coming soon, but he was still mostly paralysed and they didn't so much as twitch as the Avengers, standing in a circle above him, stared down at him in horror.

Rogers was the first one to react, hitching his shield up and  _ no no no  _ because Barnes was behind him and he had just enough control to twitch his fingers into panic mode, the suit straightening up without him, his arm raising by itself to snatch the faceplate and put it on, before shooting up to the sky. He felt detached from the motions, and the fear, and only dimly registered his own voice saying “Don’t follow me.” over the roaring in his head.

By the time the armor reached the edge of the tower, where FRIDAY was telling him that he’d switch to the stealth suit, the paralytic had completely worn off, not that it made any difference to how well he could actually pilot the suit, because his hands were shaking and he  _ knew  _ he wasn't breathing deep or slow enough, but he couldn't stop himself from gasping for air like he was coming up from water.

The battle suit dropped him, not slowing down even a little as it arced away to the south, and he though  _ good girl, Fri.  _ as the already shielded stealth suit caught him in one seamless movement that left him unprotected,  _ visible _ , for less than a fraction of a second.

The suit flew high in the sky, above the clouds, and the air shattered around him as he hit Mach 9, the muffled boom of breaking the sound barrier calming him, because  _ nothing could catch him _ . No one, not even Wilson, with only goggles to protect him, could get to anywhere near this speed, and he was shielded. Nothing could track him, and nothing could see him.

He called Pepper. She picked up right away, and she knew him so well that she didn't even try to say anything before he started speaking, stuttery and too-fast. “They- they know. Pepper, oh god, they know. They saw me- I don’t-” He didn't even know what he was trying to say, but it just spilled out, fragmented and frantic.

She cut him off, and that was  _ good _ , because otherwise he’d never say anything useful, voice brisk and concerned. “Are you hurt?” She asked, and for far too long of a second, he wanted to lie, say no, say  _ i’m fine _ like he always had, but that didn't work. It wasn't going to work.

“A little, just a cut but- but, I was paralyzed and they must have seen the blood and they took the faceplate  _ and they know, Pepper _ , and i don’t know what to do and-” He said, and he could hear FRIDAY on the other end telling her the exacts of it, and hearing both of their voices helped. Not enough, not enough for this, but they helped.

“Okay.” Pepper said, and how she could sound so  _ calm _ made him envious. “Okay. You’re flying home?” She asked, and he nodded, mute, trusting FRIDAY to relay it to her. “Good, that’s good. I’ll do damage control here. Are you okay with me hanging up? You can call again if you need me.” She added, after the question, and he nodded again, both answer and acknowledgement. “Okay, I’ll talk to you soon. Take care, Tony.” She said, and the line clicked dead.

He didn't fly in silence, FRIDAY keeping up a steady stream of chatter, and he debated veering off course, too paranoid that someone would follow him back, back to the only place he had left, back to the family he’d built, too paranoid that it’d be burnt to the ground, his life torn apart like Howard had, like Stane had, and like Rogers had, in the end.

FIRDAY reminded him, always quick to predict and say what he needed to hear, even if she was still young, that he was untraceable, and undetectable, and the fund he’d used to buy and repair his home was so small and filtered through so many shell accounts that it would be impossible to track it.

By the time he touched down behind the garage, silent and unseen, he was calm enough to leave the armor, only to slump onto the cot in the corner, the bots rushing over, and he smiled despite his nerves at his bots trying to fight to be the one to give him the first aid kit.

The cut wasn't deep, and luckily it didn't need stitches because he was in no condition to do that, not by himself. He bandaged it up, easy with the help of Dummy, and slumped onto the floor, absently running his hand over the bot’s arm, in large, shaky movements. He had to do something with his hands, had to  _ move _ , to remind himself that he  _ could _ , that he wasn't paralysed, and his heart was still beating.

One of the screens rang, Pepper’s picture popping up, and unwillingly, he stood, clutching the back of the chair as he answered. Pepper looked apologetic when he did, eyes creasing in concern, and he gave her a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Tony. They’re demanding to talk to you, I can’t talk any sense into them.” She said, and he gripped the wooden slat so hard he felt his knuckles creak. 

He nodded, shakily. “Fake a background please, Fri.” He said, and his voice was past shaky, so far past fear that he just felt, and sounded, numb. Numbness was good. He could get through this feeling numb.

FRIDAY didn't respond before the screen switched, and he glanced at the corner, where his broadcast was displayed. The background she’d chosen was a clean, modern house, with bright skies and white sand and clear water. She’d even remodelled the #1 Mad Scientist mug, with the chemical formula of caffeine on the back, a gift from Peter and Harley, into a tall glass of some fruity drink, complete with umbrella. Nothing like his home, and that detachment was a relief.

Until he looked back up at the screen, where  _ everyone _ was just staring at him, still in full uniform, and  _ he wasn't fighting. That was over,  _ but it still made him want to take a step back, Rogers with his shield somehow seeming to loom over him, even as an image on a screen.

Barton broke the silence. “What the fuck, man!” He snapped, outraged, and Tony had to force himself not to flinch back. Tony opened his mouth to respond, because the  _ hypocrisy _ , of throwing away his retirement, his chance at peace with his family for the word of a colleague, only to blame Tony for wanting a fraction of the same, but was cut off by Rogers. Of course.

“Tony,” He said, like they were  _ friends _ , and Tony bit back a laugh. “Why? Why would you do this?” He asked.

Tony actually laughed at that, harsh and sharp. “Why?! You seriously have to ask me  _ why!? _ ” He said, incredulousness pushing over top of his growing dread. “I thought you people were supposed to be  _ observant _ , Jesus.” He said, and everyone glared at him.

“You can’t just abandon the team like that, Tony! Especially for something as  _ selfish _ as what, a  _ vacation?!”  _ Rogers snapped, glowering and drawing himself up, sitting straighter in full self-righteous BS mode.

Tony laughed again, couldn't help himself. “You think I  _ abandoned  _ you? Really?! In what way was this  _ abandoning _ you? SI’s still funding you, the Foundation is still cleaning up the damages, and Iron Man’s still fighting. So, how does this count as me “shirking my responsibilities?” He asked, adding air quotes, mocking in his tone, arms folding against his chest, fingernails digging crescents into his arms through the undershirt to hide his shaking hands.

“Because we’re your  _ friends _ , Tony-” Steve started, leaning forwards and lacing his voice with concern and did he seriously think that was going to  _ work?! _

“Ha, no.” He said, and he could hear his own voice going dangerously cold, was aware of that on some level, though he honestly didn't think he had control over the tone of it anymore. “We are not  _ friends _ , Rogers.” He snapped. “Not after Siberia, and not even before that. You’re getting everything you need from me. I’m not quitting, and you’re  _ not _ going to guilt me into coming back.” He said, and turned his gaze back to the screen in the corner, where the light was glinting on the water of the sea. He snapped his eyes back to the group. “I know most of you think I’m better off dead, don’t try to deny it, and I agree.” He sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Just let me stay dead. Don’t look for me, don’t try to contact me again.” He said, and rubbed at his eyes with his good arm, not even caring that his hand was still shaking.

Rogers, of course, the stubborn bastard, wouldn't let it go. “But why would you do this? Why wouldn't you just try to be…” He trailed off.

“Is the word you’re looking for “better?”, Rogers? I did this, because if I'd continued staying with all of you, and being head of SI, I'd've most likely not need to  _ fake _ it within the year.” He said, and saw the look of recognition pass Barton’s face.

“So when you joked about-” He said, tentative.

“Jesus, did you seriously think I was  _ joking _ !?  _ Really!?”  _ He said, absolutely baffled. “Why the  _ hell _ would I joke about that?” He said, glancing at each person’s guilty, or in the cases of Wilson, Lang, and Barnes, confused looks. “In case you’re wondering, Rogers,  _ this is why I don’t consider you my friends.  _ Jesus, I wasn't even trying to  _ hide  _ it this time, and it  _ still  _ flew over all of your heads.” He said, shaking his head. 

Barnes, surprisingly, spoke up next, and Tony couldn't hold back a flinch when he stepped to the front of the screen. He stopped, brow furrowing. “You’re afraid. Of  _ us _ .” He said, flatly, with absolutely no intonation in his voice. Rogers glanced over at him, opening his mouth to say “No he’s not, Bucky-” But Tony beat him to it.

“No, Nope. I’m not.” He said, and winced because that was a really, really bad lie, and the panic came roaring back, because they were going to find him, somehow, Maximoff would get inside his head or they’d just stick a tracker on him and his home would be  _ gone _ and unsafe and-

“You are, and yet you still protect us. Why?” Barnes said, tilting his head just a little bit, while the others stared at him in horror.

Tony put his head in his hands, which were  _ still _ fucking shaking. “Because god help me, but I still care. I can’t let  _ any _ of you get hurt.” He breathed, far too honest than he’d been aiming for, voice breaking at the end. “Just leave me be. Please.” He said, and the feed cut off, from them or FRIDAY, he didn't know, but he was grateful for it as he drew a shaking, shuddering breath.

The screen lit up again, and he had a moment of fear, but it was just Pepper, looking almost as heartbroken as he felt. “Oh, Tony…” She said, and reached out like she wanted to touch him, and he  _ wished  _ she could. She cleared her throat, and he smiled at her, watery and not at all a lie. “I’ll keep them away. Do you want the boys to come over this weekend?” She asked, already tapping away at a unseen screen, knowing he’d always say yes to seeing Harley and Peter, who he was convinced were going to take over the world with their combined brains and snark. 

“Yeah. That’d be nice.” He said, and meant it.


End file.
